


The Alleyway

by ScriniariiEtIpsum



Category: No Fandom, tommyinnit ig
Genre: Gen, Murder story, Trying to write horror but i'm not good at it, killing my friends off, tommyinnit's there ig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:35:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28402572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriniariiEtIpsum/pseuds/ScriniariiEtIpsum
Summary: 1:32 A.M.Certainly they should have known better.To walk through the back alley in the stone cold ghost hours of the early morning, their path only illuminated by those few dim, flickering street lights. It was dangerous, surely they knew that.But there they were, a pair of silhouettes, trudging through the alley. The rain that had once been a soft drizzle had now evolved to a thundering storm that soaked their clothes and drove them cold to the bone. It beat down on the city, drenching the dead streets.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	The Alleyway

1:32 A.M.

Certainly they should have known better. 

To walk through the back alley in the stone cold ghost hours of the early morning, their path only illuminated by those few dim, flickering street lights. It was dangerous, surely they knew that. 

But there they were, a pair of silhouettes, trudging through the alley. The rain that had once been a soft drizzle had now evolved to a thundering storm that soaked their clothes and drove them cold to the bone. It beat down on the city, drenching the dead streets.

1:33 A.M.

A shuddering breath.

A fluttering in a chest, so much like a bird rattling its cage.

A clenching of an icy hand.

A stranger.

1:35 A.M.

This alley is a shortcut home, did one of them say? It’s not exactly short, per se. This alley is so long, too long for the two of them to be walking down at night. They walk at such leisure, with such ease. Perhaps if they’d each been alone by themselves, there would be anxiety-- panic, even. 

But they are together, two friends walking home together. They’re too wrapped up in their conversations and joking to be afraid. Their voices, just loud enough to be heard over the thunder and deafening pounding of the rain, protect them from their fears. 

They are safe.

1:36 A.M.

A quickening of steps. 

Carelessness slipping into what was meant to be so perfect, so calculated. 

The thrill of the silent chase.

The thundering of a beating heart.

Shaking breath. 

A foot stepping down onto wet cobblestone with such haste that it nearly slips.

Pupils that dilate with every step, every breath, every heartbeat.

1:37 A.M.

They can feel eyes on their backs, boring into them like knives of ice. One looks over his shoulder, eyes wide with panic. He sighs with relief as they put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. There’s nothing back there, but it’s so dark behind them, even with the street lamps. But their mind has surely fooled them, right?

Their footsteps quicken nonetheless, urging themself and their friend on.

1:38 A.M.

Carelessness.

Frustration.

Panic.

Anger.

1:39 A.M.

Regret settles in, burying itself down with the panic.

The end of the alleyway is right there, so close. Their footsteps quicken further. They won’t take this alley anymore, at least not at night. 

There’s nothing there, though. Just a resigned feeling of dread and anxiety with no clear basis. The alley is empty, just him and his friend.

He doesn’t remember the alley being so long.

1:40 A.M.

A hand reaches up to grip soaked hair in a frenzy, tugging sharply.

The stranger is almost running now. 

1:40 A.M.

He whips around, breaking into a jog. 

Movement.

A shadow amongst the shadows.

The ~~prey~~ friends are almost running now.

1:41 A.M.

The end of the alleyway lingers, just out of their reach.

Does it stretch away from them? Has it always been so endless?

But this does not concern the stranger.

He (it?) is sprinting now.

1:42 A.M.

They can hardly breathe. Their lungs hurt, and he can detect the sickening taste of copper in the back of his throat. He tries to force it down, but a strangled cry wrenches itself from his throat.

He looks back.

Nothing. 

He stops dead.

The rain has stopped completely. The air is heavy with the scent of rainwater, it feels so thick that it hurts to breathe it in. They squeeze their eyes shut, and they see their friend doing the same. He scrubs at his eyes, his breath shaking. 

Their friend’s hand, cold and clammy, clenches their arm. It hurts. Their fingernails dig into his arm through his jacket. His eyes open slowly, looking first to the hand, white at the knuckles and red from the cold. When did it get so cold? Then he looks to his friend’s face, stark white and with eyes wide and bloodshot with such a carnal panic. Then, with dread and a feeling of icy resolve, they join their friend, and slowly look down the alleyway. 

A figure. Shadowed, swaying lightly in the yellow, barely-there light of the street lights.

1:42 A.M.

The stranger has stopped dead in his (its) tracks.

1:43 A.M.

He can’t move. Their friend is quavering, trying to turn, trying to run. But something keeps them firmly bolted to the ground. His heart is in his throat.

The figure hasn’t moved. It stays there, swaying. Its arms hang limply by its sides. 

There’s a popping sound. It’s sudden and loud. His heart stops, his friend shrieks. 

The light just above the figure has broken. Shattered glass lies on the soaked pathway, and the figure can just barely be seen. 

One by one, the lights go out, each with an explosive crack.

Both they and the figure are plunged into darkness. 

1:45 A.M.

A hand reaches from the darkness, softly touching their face. It’s sickening. A sudden, unpleasant warmth on their skin, the fingers covered with thin black latex. 

A hushing. It’s so gentle and quiet.

Then pain. Sharp burning, like nothing they’ve ever felt before. It overwhelms him. He chokes, warm, sticky blood gushing from his mouth, dripping down in thick rivers from his throat, soaking his shirt.

The pain is short.

1:47 A.M.

The stranger rises, shedding his gloves. He wipes an ornate blade on the leg of its pants, streaking red across it.

Below it, the bodies of two friends lay. The stranger is proud of himself. Despite his prior excitement and frustration, he’s done quite a clean job. A thin, curved, deep line across each throat, the blood dripping down through the cobblestone, washed down a nearby drain by the drizzling rain. 

He puts a foot down heavily onto the chest of one of the bodies, a nauseating crunch meeting his boot. He laughs, quietly. Darkly.

_“Just killed a man, feeling good!"_


End file.
